The Bookshop

Immeuble à Boulogne-Billancourt. Photograph Nozav, Public Domain

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by Amal Chatterjee

His mother has gone by the time he wakes up. Kicking the covers to the foot of the bed, he swings himself off. Even though he knows he is alone, he checks his shorts, pulls down his shirt. The habits of living in close proximity die hard.

            There is a pot of coffee by the stove. His mother often tells him to warm it but he never does, he doesn’t care that it is tepid, its bitterness, he thinks, is sharper for the cooling. He opens the fridge, finds a stump of baguette and strawberry jam. Sustenance enough for now. He chews a ragged piece of red on white, performs perfunctory ablutions, cold water on his face, toothbrush a few times round his mouth, a comb through his hair. Then he dresses, jeans wearing thin, a polo shirt once red, a shapeless grey jumper.

            An hour later he is there. Being a winter weekday, it is quiet. He wends his way through the narrow aisles between bookcases, ascends the winding staircase, to the room with the window and a view of the river and the cathedral. He plucks his book from the shelves, drops onto a sagging sofa, finds his page. He reads slowly, laboriously, the language is foreign, its words not quite easy. He wonders whether, impeded by the fog of half-connected words and unwieldy sentences, he reads a story different from that of others, of others more fluent.

            While he reads, knots of people find their way to the space he occupies, the sacred room. They step inside, reverential, whispering, casting puzzled glances in his direction. Pilgrims at a shrine, his presence is unexpected, confusing. They angle their cameras away, their images of the sanctuary must be clean, empty, pristine. It isn’t personal, he tells himself, they avoid each other too.

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            He doggedly tries to read on but, after a while, the words and sentences become impenetrable. His phone vibrates, he takes it out. A stream of missed messages. The plan, as always, is to meet at the corner of the park. Not said but understood, to smoke a few cigarettes, a joint perhaps, pass arch and ribald comments at girls know or don’t quite, girls who turn away, pretending they haven’t heard.

            A young couple enters. The man’s sleek leather shoes proclaim affluence, as does his neatly pressed shirt, his pastel trousers. They look around. She sinks into the armchair in the corner. The man stands over her, talking. English, of course, they look it every inch. He talks as if they are alone amongst the books and the furniture. A drink on the Left Bank, dinner somewhere, another drink later? The woman nods.

            Earlier that day on the Metro, a girl in a faded red jacket, couldn’t have been more than fifteen, played a mournful tune on an accordion while a younger waif, barely five, he guessed, clutching a sheaf of paper and pencils (gifts from another carriage?) wandered among the passengers, palm upturned for change. No-one gave her anything more than a frown or a smile, polite at best, so she returned to her older companion, empty-handed but unperturbed. Both seemed resigned, used to being ignored.

At his stop, he and a smattering of tourists, a Scandinavian family, blonde parents, sturdy shoes, obedient children, a bearded German, a grey American couple, two girls, shop uniforms under padded jackets, had disembarked, gone their separate ways.

            “Excuse me?”

            The girl is addressing him.

            “Pardon?” he says.

          “Do you speak English?”

            He holds up his book. “A little.”

            She smiles. “Of course.”

         He utters the first thing that comes into his head. He looks around. “Your friend, he has gone?”  He colours as the words tumble out. “Sorry …”

            “No need to apologise,” she says, “He has.”

           More words tumble out unbidden. “Would you like coffee?”

            Her eyes widen, then she laughs.  “Yes, I’d love a coffee.”

            He thinks of his wallet. One note, a few coins. That should be enough, shouldn’t it? He’s glad he didn’t take up Maurice’s offer of a share of a stash last night. Maurice is an idiot, he can’t tell hash from goat shit, it probably was rubbish. It wouldn’t be the first time.

            “There’s a café next door.”

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            He leads the way down the stairs, holds the door open for her. As she steps past, neat cashmere coat, smart boots, he feels awkward, crumpled, underdressed.

            The café is quiet. She chooses a table by a window, the one he would have chosen himself, had he been in the habit of drinking coffee in a café in this part of town. Where he usually drinks coffee, he sits by the window too but the view is different. Streets less swept, coats functional rather than fashionable. No cathedral, no river. It might as well be another planet.

            Her eyes take in the room, the counter. “How about one of those pastries?”

           He wonders whether he can afford it.

            “My treat,” she says.

            He frowns. “No, no. You are the visitor, the guest.” How much can pastries be? Too much, definitely. He could forgo coffee? Yes, that is it, she can have her pastry, he’ll have a glass of water. He can say, truthfully, he’s had a coffee already. Even if it was hours ago.

            “I insist,” she says. She stands up, “Let me get them.”
            “No, no…” But she is firm so he gives in. He declines the pastry though.

            When she returns to the table, two coffees, one pastry, she talks, he listens. The young man is her fiancé, they met at university. He went to public school. Which he knows means a private one in England. Private to those with money. She herself, she tells him, went to a state school, a good one, her parents are comfortable but not wealthy. Suburban people. Her father works in a bank, her mother in an agency. Her fiancé proposed to her on one knee. They are engaged, she has a diamond ring to show for it, not huge, its tasteful, a real diamond, but she doesn’t like wearing it, it’s too showy.

            He listens to all she is telling him, a stranger.

            “But I’m doing all the talking,” she says after a while, “Tell me something about you.”

            He takes a sip of his coffee. What is there to tell? He thinks quickly, he’s worked in a burger bar. He’s training in catering.

            “To be a chef?” she asks.

            He clears his throat. “First, an … apprentice. That is the word, isn’t it?”

            “Yes, it is,” she smiles. “You speak good English.”

            “We learn it at school,” he says.

            “I did languages at school but I can’t speak a word,” she says. Her bag beeps. She reaches inside, takes out her phone, taps the screen. “I’m so sorry, I have to go now.”

            He watches her pay. She waves as she goes out. He waves back, and again as she passes the window. 

            “Do you come to the bookshop often?” she’d asked.

            “Yes,” he’d said, not quite untruthfully, “Whenever I can.”

            “We might run into each other again then,” she’d said.

           From where he is sitting, he can see the bridge, he can see her, see the man who is her fiancé walking towards her. They walk away, to the other side of the river, and are gone. She doesn’t look back.

            He finishes his coffee. His mother won’t be home for a while. She’s working two shifts, daytime in the supermarket, then, after hours, cleaning after the office workers have gone home. She prefers the late shift, at least she gets to sleep some of the hours of darkness. But now that it’s winter, she still has to get up before sunrise.

            At the park he is greeted warmly. “Where have you been, brother?”

            “About,” he says, “Got a cigarette?”

            They smoke companionably. Gradually the rest of the crew come by, a joint is lit, passed around. Someone has a scooter, a hand-me-down from an elder brother. They take turns on it till, one by one, they have to leave. Some bid farewell effusively, at length, others slip away quietly.

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            Around nine, he goes home too. His mother has been, a still-warm pot of food waits. He helps himself, pours himself a glass of cola, turns on the television. Football. He doesn’t care who wins, a game is a game. When it is over, he turns off the set and goes to his room.

            The laptop, gifted by a cousin when he’d bought a new one, isn’t the fastest but it works, just about. The chatrooms are alive, young men talking about women, sharing jokes, stories of football, some raging at wars and injustices far away. He idly flips from one conversation to another till he is bored enough to sleep.

            The next morning, his mother has left again. He drinks tepid coffee, catches the bus into the city, gets off two stops early. By the time he gets to the bookshop, it is drizzling, a fine, penetrating spray that soaks his hair, his clothes. He wipes his hair with his handkerchief, brushes rain from his jacket.  His best jacket, faux leather, a little worn but decent. He has a good shirt on too, one with a collar, and jeans less worn than the ones he has on the day before.

            The girl at the desk, piercings everywhere, American he guesses, waves as he enters.

            “You were here yesterday, weren’t you?” she asks.

            “Yes …”

            She pushes a piece of paper across the counter. “Your friend, she left this for you.”

            He takes it, a page from a hotel pad, neatly folded. “Merci.” 

            Behind tall bookshelves, he unfolds the note. “I’ll be here this evening, from 7.”

           There are hours to pass, to while away. He considers a book, but the thought of effort of another wave of foreign words doesn’t appeal today. He heads back to the door, nods at the girl as he goes out.

“Bye!” she calls out cheerily.

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            The rain has stopped, it is now blustery damp. He walks along the river, stops at a cafe that he chooses for no reason other than that it is there. The other customers, locals some, others clearly tourists, barely glance at him. In the heart of the city at least he is unremarkable, invisible.

            The coffee is bad. He looks around. The regulars, so settled that they blend in with the furnishings probably don’t care, they come out of habit. The tourists know no better. He drains his cup quickly, leaves coins on the table, walks out again. A few minutes later he is at the cinema. The ticket machine is out of order, a sign directs him to the popcorn booth. There, a bored youth serves giggling girls, then takes his money, gives him a ticket.

            “Screen two. Upstairs, turn left. Anything else?”

            “No thank you.”

            The end of the world again. Terror on the streets of New York, always New York, the hero tears across the world while digital numbers run down, one by one. The girl is bedded, the world is saved (not in that order), the tale is done. Ticker tape and cheering crowds but the hero isn’t there, he’s slipped away, to be with his girl.

            There are empty seats in the lobby, he settles into one, scrolls through the messages on his phone. The same as yesterday, who’s going to be at the park, who won’t, some giving reasons, excuses. He doesn’t join in, he’s not expected to. No-one is, not really. No promises means no excuses. It’s simple.

            At six, he checks out. That’s the way he thinks of it, the act of leaving the building. No desire to join the headlong rush underground, to be crushed against other people, he stays above ground. The buses are as full, traffic has slowed to a crawl. Walking will give him time, lingering at the crossings, waiting for the lights to change while others hurry by. Time to stop and light a cigarette, to pause under a tree. To exchange words with a drunk on a corner, to kick a ball back to boys playing on a square. Their mother calls them away. Don’t play with strangers, he imagines her saying. Adding, or not, strangers like him. Even if he’s only from another part of the city.

            He looks at his watch, time to move on. He’s five minutes away. 

            He almost turns back.

            As he turns the last corner, a wall of sound hits him. People bundle past, shouting, their faces contorted. Flashing blue lights, sirens, whistles. He swims against the tide of humanity.

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            He feels a weight fall onto him, he is knocked to the ground, the wind is driven out of him. His face is ground into the pavement, his nose is against the flag stones, he inhales the filth of the city streets.

            “Don’t move!”

            The voice is too loud, the man’s mouth is too close to his ear.  Perhaps, he thinks, none of this is happening.

Yes, that’s it, he thinks, maybe he isn’t here, maybe this isn’t happening.

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An author and creative writing tutor based in Amsterdam and Oxford, Amal Chatterjee’s writing includes fiction, long and short, plays, history and other non-fiction. He is a Fellow of the UK’s Royal Historical Society and teaches fiction on the the University of Oxford’s MSt (Master’s Programme) in Creative Writing. His next book is Prisoners of Empire: How Former Colonies Were Set Up to Fail to be published by Hurst Publishers in 2026. He is one of the Xenophiles, a group of writers who celebrate diversity and cultural exchange. He is also a founding member of the Paris Writers’ Collective, and designes teaches academic and creative writing courses for, amongst others, the VU Taalcentrum, the Amsterdam Institute of Social Science Research at the University of Amsterdam, the NIAS (the Netherlands Institute for Arts and Sciences) and the Nieuwe Liefde Cultural Centre in Amsterdam. His novel, Across the Lakes, was shortlisted for the Crossword India Best Novel Award in 1998, while his short fiction has been published in numerous countries including the Netherlands, India, and the UK. His non-fiction has appeared in publications such as Prospect, the Huffington Post, The Independent, and the Hindustan Times, and includes the book Representations of India, 1740-1840 (1998). He also edited and contributed to Writers on Writing (2013), featuring writing from the US, the UK, India, Pakistan, Ireland, and Australia. His short plays, Dreams of England and Finding José, were staged in 2017 and 2018 by the Tamasha Theatre Company and Pokfulam Road Productions at London venues including the Arcola and Theatre. Amal writes regularly for Ars Notoria Magazine.

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